


A Bow of Bronze

by Athuo



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Amputation, Arthur Whump, Gen, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 17:23:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18554356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athuo/pseuds/Athuo
Summary: The O'Driscolls show no mercy. Neither does nature.





	A Bow of Bronze

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for semi-graphic medical procedures. (Some creative license has been taken re: rate of healing.)
> 
> Been a while since I've written anything. Be gentle. Sorry it's a bit short - I'm still getting back into the swing of writing. Hope you enjoy!

By the time they find Arthur, it’s too late.

The man is still alive - thank God, Dutch thinks fervently - but it’s too late nonetheless. When they reach him, strung up by his legs in Colm O’damn Driscoll’s cellar, the stench of infection is overwhelming. The puddle of blood under Arthur’s fingertips is alarming in and of itself, but the deathly pallor in his face and the nauseating gray color of his left arm threaten to make Dutch’s knees give out from under him.  

“Arthur?” Dutch whispers, not expecting a response but feeling a sharp ache in his chest at the silence anyway. He stumbles forward, time slowing around him like molasses as he takes in Arthur’s slack face and still form. When he crouches down, coming almost level with the younger man’s face, the press of his fingers to Arthur’s throat is tentative and trembling.

The response is minute but immediate. Arthur’s brow pinches ever so slightly, a pitifully quiet whimper slipping out. Dutch heaves a gusty breath, relief and fear coursing through him in equal measure.  

“You’re gonna be alright, Arthur,” Dutch says, not knowing if it’s a lie. “Just… hold on, my boy. Hold on.”  

He’s barely risen to his feet again when the heavy slam of Charles’ footsteps pound down the stairs behind him before stilling abruptly. “My God,” the other man breathes. “What did they do to him?”  

“Nothing good,” Dutch says, trying to pull some of his characteristic confidence over himself like a cloak. “Help me get him down.”

It’s a painstaking process, each mistake earning them a weak cry or soft groan from Arthur that sends a wince through all three men. Eventually, though, they have him lying on the cold stone of the cellar, head cushioned by Dutch’s scarlet vest.  

“Go get my horse and bring him as close as you can,” Dutch commands Charles. The other man nods and disappears, leaving Dutch and Arthur alone for a minute. He cups the younger man’s cheek in his palm, breath hitching and Arthur unconsciously leans into his touch. The lines in his face are tight with pain, but his lack of consciousness - for all that it sends a thrill of fear through Dutch - is at least reassurance that the poor man can’t feel any of the agony no doubt waiting for him when he wakes up.

“Oh, my boy,” Dutch whispers. He strokes his thumb delicately across Arthur’s temple. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I took so long. You’re going to be…” He swallows painfully. “You’re going to be-”  

“Dutch!” Charles hollers from just outside the cellar.  

Shaking himself, Dutch slips one arm under Arthur’s shoulders and one under his knees, lifting up and ignoring the way his muscles strain. Arthur, for his part, is unnervingly silent, even as Dutch jostles him going up the stairs.  

Getting him on the Count is a blur, as is the ride back. All Dutch can remember is clutching Arthur tight, chest pressed against the younger man’s back, as the wind whips tears from his eyes.  

“Hold on, Arthur,” Dutch pleads softly, almost inaudible over the horse’s harsh breathing and the rhythmic pounding of hoofbeats. “Please.”

By the time they get back to camp, half the gang is anxiously hovering around the main campfire. Hosea and John immediately rise at the sound of the other men returning, the older man’s eyes drawn to Dutch’s within seconds.

A thousand words flit through Dutch’s mind, not a few of them apologies, but in the end he settles for simplicity. “Help me get him down,” Dutch orders to no one in particular.

Hosea rushes forward, balancing Arthur as Dutch slides off the Count. Together, they pull him down gently and support the younger man between them as they half-carry, half-drag him over to his own cot.

Arthur stirs enough to moan lowly at the treatment, but not much else. His head lolls where it’s settled on the pillow, right fist clenching unconsciously in the blankets beneath him.

The commotion in the background dulls to white noise as Dutch takes in Arthur’s condition in the light of the fire and lantern. A cold numbness washes through Dutch’s veins as he looks over the younger man, and only a firm hand on his shoulder grounds him to reality.

When he turns to see who the hand belongs to, Hosea’s worried gaze meets his. The older man’s eyes flicker over to Arthur and back, a terrible knowledge spreading over his face as Dutch watches.

“He’s gonna make it, Hosea,” Dutch snaps desperately.

 “I’m not sayin’ he won’t,” Hosea reassures him. “I’m just sayin’ there are measures we need to take to make sure of it.”

There’s no moment of denial or wondering for Dutch. He knows what Hosea means. He just doesn’t want to accept it, doesn’t want to damn Arthur to a life he knows the man will see as worthless.

“We… there must be another way-”

“Dutch, the infection is too far along. It’s his arm or his life,” Hosea says. There’s a bitter anger in his voice, but it’s not directed at Dutch. He knows - he feels the same seething hatred for Colm O’Driscoll coursing through his veins every time he glances at Arthur or hears the man’s barely-audible whimpers. 

Dutch screws his eyes shut. He rubs a hand over his mouth, feeling a hundred years old. “If we can get him to a doctor-”

“Dutch, we _have_ to amputate,” Hosea urges desperately. His hands are trembling where they rest on Arthur’s shoulders, but whether the tremors come from Hosea or Arthur is a mystery. The younger man is trembling bodily even with the many hands trying to comfort him. Tilly and Abigail are knelt beside him, their hands dwarfed against his form, even emaciated as it is.

For a long moment, Dutch’s eyes are locked on Arthur’s left arm, sickeningly gray and eerily unmoving.”I…” he trails off.

Arthur moans lowly. It’s enough to snap Dutch out of it, the man coming back to himself. “John, fetch a belt for him to bite down on. Susan, heat some water and gather all the clean cloths we have.” He swallows down a lump in his throat before continuing. “Bill, get the hacksaw.”

Dimly, Dutch hears Hosea call for Mary-Beth to get Jack out of camp. Abigail, who had been washing away the sweat and dirt from Arthur’s face, retreats a few feet away with Tilly as he approaches. The older man kneels next to Arthur and gently clasps his good hand with both of his own.

Arthur’s breathing is labored, his normally vibrant eyes glassy. Carefully, Dutch turns the younger man’s head so he can see him. His heart sinks as he realizes Arthur is barely aware of his surroundings. 

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Dutch says quietly, for what feels like the hundredth time that night and yet still not enough. Arthur’s mouth works silently, lips forming Dutch’s name. 

Hosea’s hand presses heavily against Dutch’s shoulder. The younger man sighs and leans into his friend’s touch for a few moments before withdrawing, heaving a deep breath, and turning to the others. “Micah, get his good arm. Bill - his legs. Charles, I need you keeping him as calm as you can get him.”

Bill hands the hacksaw to Hosea, whose jaw is set in a grim expression in a stark contrast the gentleness of his hand on Dutch’s shoulder seconds before. The other men are quick to do as ordered; Bill straddles Arthur’s thighs and Micah holds down Arthur’s right arm at the wrist. Charles settles next to Arthur’s head, cradling the man’s temples in his hands.

Arthur blinks open his eyes blearily, delirious gaze roving about him. Charles leans down to murmur something indistinguishable in his ear. Dutch stretches out Arthur’s arm spread-eagle, binding his wrist to the tentpole and fighting down nausea both at what’s about to happen and the cold, dead sensation of the infected limb.

He isn’t given long to dwell on it. Quick and efficient as always, Hosea douses Arthur’s shoulder in alcohol and applies a makeshift tourniquet fashioned out of a belt. At the jostling of his arm, Arthur whimpers, but he remains otherwise silent, too out of it to really protest.

Dutch watches as Hosea forces his shaking hands to remain steady around the hacksaw. The older man looks round at all of them once to check that they’re ready, eyes locking on Dutch’s for a moment longer than the rest.

Dutch clasps Arthur’s gangrenous hand gently but firmly. He nods at Hosea once, sharply.

Hosea digs the saw into Arthur’s arm without warning. Arthur jerks bodily but, to everyone’s surprise, doesn’t make a noise. Hosea doesn’t pause despite this, cutting just below the shoulder with his eyes glued to the limb.

For a few blessed moments, Arthur seems utterly unaffected by Hosea’s actions. The grotesque squelch of metal on flesh is the only sound to be heard. Hosea cuts and cuts, sweat beading on his brow already. 

He’s maybe an inch into Arthur’s bicep when the man beneath him jerks abruptly. Hosea swears loudly, but the sound is almost immediately drowned out by Arthur’s strangled scream.

Micah, Bill, and Dutch press down more firmly as the man bucks wildly. Charles hushes Arthur softly, but the expression on his face is more helpless than Dutch has ever seen it, his fingers trembling where they stroke Arthur’s temples.

“Hold him steady, damn it,” Hosea snaps.

Before Micah or Bill can toss back an angry retort, Dutch glances up at the older man. “Just do it, Hosea,” he commands.

Hosea obeys. He forces the hacksaw through Arthur’s arm even as the man howls and bucks. Weakened as he is, Arthur’s no match for the combined weight of the other men. The noise made as Hosea works the saw through his arm is enough to send bile up Dutch’s throat. Blood pools rapidly on the ground beneath his shoulder, dripping down to his hand. The smell of the infection being excised is revoltingly foul; all but Hosea and Charles cover their mouths to block the rancid scent.

Charles has his mouth lowered next to Arthur’s ear as he whispers soft reassurances to the other man, but it’s clear Arthur can’t hear them. The man’s voice cracks on his screams, even around the belt.

“Hold still, Arthur,” Dutch says, half-pleading. “It’ll be over soon.”

Arthur’s screams are dying down into something quieter but no less terrible, dissolving into rasping sobs. “Stop,” he begs, voice pitifully weak, “please - please…”

His shoulder jerks futilely as much as it can under Dutch and Hosea’s hands. The scrape of his heels scrabbling pushes the blankets off his cot.

Abruptly, a blood-chilling crack rings out as Arthur’s humerus is snapped by the saw. A high-pitched keen is punched out of the man, somewhere between a whimper and a moan. Tears are streaming down Arthur’s temples despite his eyes being tightly shut.

The expression on his boy’s face turning his stomach, Dutch makes the mistake of looking down towards Arthur’s arm. He’s seen a lot in his years as an outlaw, but the sight of the man he considers a son with his arm hanging on by a tendon makes his gorge rise and blood drain from his face.

 _Please just pass out, Arthur,_ he urges silently.

Blood from Arthur’s shoulder is pooling on the ground, staining Dutch’s knees. Arthur’s body is stilling eerily, eyes going glassy, though his breaths stay labored.

“Arthur?” Dutch asks. Arthur doesn’t respond. Dutch barks out his name again, voice cracking as desperation leaks into his tone.

“He’s in shock,” Charles murmurs, hands never leaving Arthur’s head. Tears are still slipping down his face.

There’s a grotesque noise the likes of which Dutch never wants to hear again, and with a thud, the dead arm hits the ground. Arthur is beyond reacting.

Hosea tosses the hacksaw to the side and swiftly grabs the bandages without further ado. He folds a generous amount together and presses it to Arthur’s blunted shoulder, earning a jerk and a whine slipping out from the corner of the younger man’s mouth. Arthur’s breath is shallow and labored, all rasping gasps for air, and Dutch realizes with alarm that Arthur’s good hand is frigid to the touch.

The fight gone out of the man, Bill and Micah clamber off his limbs. Dutch’s eyes are drawn again to Arthur’s shoulder as if witnessing a train wreck. The reek of infection hasn’t abated, but it’s been joined by the pungent coppery scent of blood. Hosea is there pressing the gauze hard onto the shoulder. Despite the impressive pile of bandages he’d amassed, they’re soaked through with red in moments.

Tremors sweep through Arthur’s body violently even still. “Go get some blankets,” Hosea barks at no one in particular. John gathers up the sheets that Arthur had shoved off his cot in his delirium, while Bill disappears, presumably to fetch more blankets from around camp.

“Micah, get rid of the arm,” Hosea orders, sounding remarkably calm. Micah obeys without complaint for once and vanishes into the nearby trees to dispose of it.

Arthur’s eyes are open and staring glassily, unable to focus. His hand is loose in Dutch’s and his hair soaked through with sweat. 

“Fever’s already set in,” Charles says quietly, hands steady on Arthur’s skin.

“All we can do now is keep him comfortable and pray,” Hosea says.

And so they do.

* * *

 Hosea and Dutch sit with him throughout the night. Others come in and visit, some longer than others; Charles and John stay for a few hours before leaving for guard duty. Abigail comes in and almost immediately turns away, though not before Dutch catches sight of tears springing to her eyes.

Hosea changes the bandages what feels like constantly until the blood starts to clot at last. Dutch fixes cold washcloths on Arthur’s forehead, adjusting them when he throws them off in his tossing and turning.

Around three in the morning, Arthur starts mumbling and muttering in the throes of the fever. He mouths something indistinguishable. Dutch and Hosea share a concerned glance, leaning down in parallel to strain to hear it. Sean, who’s stepped in for a moment, tilts his head in confusion. 

“Is… Isaac…”

Something in Dutch’s chest clenches painfully as he picks up the plaintive word. “Oh, Arthur,” Hosea murmurs, sounding heartbroken himself.

“Who’s he talking about?” asks Sean, looking shaken.

“Where…” Arthur rasps, clearly unaware of what he’s saying but distraught nonetheless.

“They’re not here, Arthur,” Hosea says gently.

“Who’s Isaac?” Sean asks again.

“His son,” Dutch tells Sean, voice somber and pained.

“Morgan’s got a kid?” Sean asks, shocked.

“He did,” Hosea chimes in.

“Where is the lad, then?” Sean asks, eyes flicking from Arthur to Hosea.

Arthur mumbles deliriously again, and Hosea leans over him to shush him softly. Dutch turns to Sean. “He and his mother were killed ten years back,” he intones.

For once, Sean is speechless. He gapes for a long moment, shock splayed across his features.

“Arthur was…” Dutch trails off. “It was a bad time. For everyone.” He glances over at Arthur, watching fresh tears track down the man’s face. “Sean, would you be so kind as to fetch some more water, cool as you can get it?" 

Sean lingers a moment, eyes caught on Arthur’s face, before nodding and leaving. Hosea meets Dutch’s eyes and nods - they both know Arthur wouldn’t want to be seen like this.

The night passes much like the evening has. At some point, Dutch falls asleep, only aware of it when he stirs. He blinks open bleary eyes to see Hosea looking back at him.

“He’s doing okay,” the older man says, before Dutch can even pose the question. “Fever’s gone down a bit. Just gotta wait it out.”

Dutch nods, more to himself than anything, and stretches as much as he can in the cramped space of Arthur’s tent. Faded sunlight bleeds through the canvas, bathing all of them in a muted golden haze. Ambient noise drifts through the tent walls as the camp wakes up slowly, everyone still mindful of Arthur’s state. 

The man in question is resting surprisingly peacefully. The remnants of his left shoulder have been wrapped tightly with bandages tinged with only a bit of pink, bare chest rising and falling softly in sleep. His right hand is slack at his side, and his legs are tangled in the blankets, as if he’d been alternating between pulling them up and kicking them off. He’s pale, sure, but his color is miles better than it was last night.

All in all, it’s a damn miracle he’s still breathing. For a moment, Dutch wonders at the speed with which Arthur has evidently been healing, but he rationalizes it in his head by reasoning that getting rid of the gangrene-ridden arm ultimately did more good than harm, and he’s not about to check this gift horse’s teeth.

Meeting Hosea’s gaze again, Dutch straightens up. He takes in the lines carved deeper than ever in the other man’s face, the bags under his eyes and the disheveled hair, and he frowns. He opens his mouth to say something, go tell Hosea to lay down for a bit, but something in his friend’s expression stops him short. It’s the same desperation Dutch felt clawing at his ribs last time, manifest on Hosea’s features.

Tenderly, Dutch reaches a hand over and places it on Hosea’s knee. “He’ll be alright, Hosea,” Dutch says softly. “Like you said.”

“Oh, he’ll live,” Hosea replies. “I’ve no doubt of that, not now that he’s lasted through the night. But… Dutch, his arm - you know what he’ll say. What he’ll think.” 

He does. Dutch is well-acquainted with Arthur’s particular breed of self-loathing, subtle but no less potent for it. The man bases the entirety of his worth in his value to the gang. If he can’t hunt, can’t steal, can’t shoot - well, imagination needn’t be stretched far to figure out what Arthur will think of himself as a one-armed outlaw. 

“Then we’ll teach him otherwise,” Dutch says firmly. 

Hosea holds his tongue after that, instead contenting himself to stroke Arthur’s good hand in what he hopes is a soothing rhythm. He nods to himself once, decisively. 

“That we will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, y'all. Love via kudos and comments is much appreciated.


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